Ragan leaned back against the cold metal of the train station bench, the duffel bag pressed against his hip, and stared across the crowded platform.
People milled about like ants—stumbling through their routines, dragging suitcases, checking phones, snapping at kids. Same chaos, different day.
But it wasn't the noise that bothered him.
It was the other thing.
The weird thing.
He had started noticing it on the way here. On the escalator. In the corners of his vision.
Shapes.
Not people. Not shadows. Just… something.
Clinging to certain folks.
A hunched figure riding on a man's back as he argued with his wife. A shape with too many eyes curled up beneath the bench across from him, staring at a teenage girl who hadn't stopped crying since she sat down.
They weren't solid.
Just impressions.
Flickers in the air, like heat waves.
He rubbed his eyes, then cracked open the energy drink he'd bought twenty minutes ago and took a sip. The taste was awful, but the sugar and caffeine kept his hands from shaking too much.
Maybe it was nothing.
Maybe he was just tired.
Maybe it had something to do with the sword.
He had withdrawn a thick chunk of cash from an ATM as soon as he got to the station and stuffed most of it into his duffel bag and the rest of it into his cheap ass wallet.
He used a few bills to buy snacks, drinks, and a cheap boxed sandwich that he'd already regret eating. But hey, some traditions die hard.
The train took forever.
Long ride. Rough seats.
He chewed through everything he bought, barely even tasting it, and spent the rest of the ride staring out the window, eyes half-lidded, head bumping against the wall with every sway of the car.
Eventually, the city bled into countryside. The buildings thinned. The skyline fell into hills and wires and fog-draped forest.
The moment he stepped off at the last stop, it hit him.
The smell.
Pine, smoke, a little bit of stagnant water.
Familiar. Wrong.
His shoes hit the gravel platform and he stood there, still holding his bag, as the train pulled away behind him.
He looked around.
Same signs. Same cracked platform. Same vending machine with the missing keypad cover.
And the air?
Still. Too still. Like the town was holding its breath.
There was no bus running around these parts, the line had been discontinued years ago. So he had no choice but to walk.
He travelled down the same path he used to take as a kid. Past the rusted streetlamp that still flickered during the day. Past the old shrine no one prayed at anymore. Past the row of crooked mailboxes, most of them gone or tilted at weird angles like forgotten teeth.
He kept walking.
A lot of things were exactly as he remembered.
And somehow, that made it worse.
After all these years, he thought maybe the town would've changed. Grown. Moved on.
But it hadn't.
It was like time didn't want anything to do with this place.
The same shops were boarded up. The same broken fence still leaned into the alley. Even the same faded graffiti was carved into the side of the corner store that hadn't sold anything in a decade.
It was all… frozen.
As if the whole town was just waiting for someone to finish the sentence and nobody ever did.
This place had always been like this. He just forgot how heavy that felt.
It took longer than he remembered to get to the street where his mom's place sat. His legs were aching a little from the walk, and the weight of the duffel bag had started digging into his shoulder, but he didn't stop.
Not yet.
He turned the corner.
There it was.
A little two-story house tucked between overgrown hedges and a leaning power pole. Paint peeling. Windows foggy. The same cracked flowerpot still sat on the porch.
He walked up the path, every step like a question he didn't want the answer to.
What if she wasn't here?
What if she had moved?
What if she opened the door and didn't recognize him?
What if—
He stopped at the door.
His hand hovered.
Just knock.
It's not that hard.
Just knock.
He raised his fist.
Knocked twice.
Then once more.
His breath caught in his throat.
No answer.
His heart started beating faster.
Then—footsteps.
Slow. Careful. Familiar.
The door creaked open.
A woman stood in the frame. Her hair was streaked with gray now, tied back into a bun the same way she always used to wear it when she was in the middle of cleaning. Her apron was dusted with flour. Her sleeves rolled up.
She looked up at him, brow furrowing slightly.
Ragan opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
She blinked.
Then something in her eyes shifted.
Lit up.
And before he could say a word, she stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.
Tight. Stronger than he expected.
She buried her face into his shoulder.
"You're back," she whispered.
"I…" he started, voice catching.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
His arms wrapped around her slowly, like he was afraid she might fade if he moved too fast.
"I'm back, Mom," he said.
She pulled back just enough to look at him. Her eyes brimmed with tears, but she didn't cry.
"Look at you," she said, touching his face with one hand. "You got taller. You got skinnier."
He laughed, barely holding it together.
"You look the same," he said.
"That's a lie, I am older after all"
She smiled.
Then she stepped aside.
"Come in," she said. "I've got rice on the stove and soup warming up."
He stepped inside.
And for the first time in a long time, the weight in his chest eased just a little.
The air inside the house was warm and soft, the kind of warmth that soaked into your bones instead of sitting on your skin. It smelled like steamed rice and simmering broth and maybe some grilled fish. The floors still creaked in the same places they always had. The hallway still had that tiny picture of a crane his mom got from a local fair when he was six.
She led him into the kitchen, and it was like stepping into a time capsule.
Same brown tiles. Same flower-pattern curtains. Same slightly lopsided dining table with one mismatched chair at the end because the old one broke and she never got around to replacing it.
"You hungry?" she asked, moving back to the stove.
"Starving," Ragan said.
"Then sit. Shoes off, bag down. You're not in the city anymore."
He chuckled and slipped off his shoes, placing them neatly by the door. His bag landed with a soft thud near the wall. He sat at the table and exhaled, shoulders dropping for what felt like the first time in months.
She stirred something in the pot, the scent growing richer.
"I almost didn't recognize you at first," she said without turning. "You've lost weight. Got that tired look in your eyes like your father used to. And taller, too. You eat anything at all out there?"
"Sometimes," he said with a shrug. "Mostly noodles and many bowls of regret."
She laughed, a short but full sound.
"You always were a dramatic little thing. Good to see that didn't change."
She turned off the stove and started preparing bowls. As she ladled soup and rice into mismatched dishes, she glanced over her shoulder.
"You should've told me you were coming. I would've made something bigger. Fried chicken. Maybe dumplings."
"It was a random decision really."
"Well, next time, give me a heads-up. I'll break out the real soy sauce."
He smiled.
She set the bowl in front of him, then one for herself. Sat across from him and tucked a napkin into her collar.
Then she just looked at him.
No judgment. No demand. Just the kind of gaze only a mother could give. Soft. Familiar. Slightly amused.
"I missed you," she said quietly.
He nodded, throat thick. "Yeah. I missed you too."
She started eating, and he followed. The soup was exactly how he remembered. Miso base, with seaweed and thin-sliced tofu. Rice fluffy but slightly sticky. No fancy ingredients, no expensive garnish—just comfort.
Between bites, she spoke.
"You remember Kenta? Lived down the street?"
"Yeah," Ragan said through a mouthful of rice.
"He finally married that girl he liked. The one from the bakery. They've got a baby now. Fat little thing. You'll meet him if you stay long enough."
"That's great. He used to get nosebleeds every time she looked at him."
"I know. I told her that when I saw her last. She laughed so hard, she nearly dropped a tray of melon bread."
He chuckled, wiping his mouth.
"And Nanako—remember her? She and her brother used to run circles around you."
"Don't remind me."
"Well, she's teaching now. Came back after university. Runs the local school art club. She's married, too. Husband's a bit of a stick, but nice enough."
"Sounds like everybody figured things out."
"Some did. Some didn't. Time doesn't fix everything, but it keeps moving." She paused, then looked at him.
"What took you so long?"
He froze for a second.
Her tone wasn't accusing. Just wondering.
He leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath. "I don't know. I told myself I was busy. Told myself the city needed me. But mostly I just… didn't want to come back with nothing."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Are you in trouble? Do you owe someone money?"
"No," he said.
"Do you need money?"
He smiled. "No."
"Are you dying?"
"Not today."
"Then why—"
"I'm okay," he said, cutting her off gently. "Really. For once, I'm okay."
She narrowed her eyes a little, like she didn't quite believe him.
"Okay doesn't just happen, Ragan."
"I know. That's why I brought proof."
He turned and reached for his bag, unzipped one of the inner compartments, and pulled out the thick envelope of cash he'd stuffed inside.
He placed it on the table between them. It landed with a solid weight. Crisp bills, clean and folded.
She stared at it.
Then at him.
Then back at it.
"…Did you rob a bank?"
"No."
"Did someone die?"
"No."
"Are you laundering money?"
"No, Mom."
"Well, what in the world—"
"I came into some luck," he said. "Some real luck. And I promise, it's clean. It's all mine."
She reached forward, hesitated, then touched the envelope like it might burn her fingers.
Her eyes welled up for a second, but she blinked quickly and looked away.
"I'm happy for you," she said, her voice softer now. "Really. You deserve something good."
He smiled.
"I… probably should've brought a gift or something. For you. But I didn't think that far ahead."
She turned her head slowly.
"You what?"
"I didn't get anything—"
She grabbed the spoon she'd left by the stove and smacked the back of his hand.
"Ow!"
"You disappear for years," she said, whacking the table lightly with each word, "show up out of nowhere with money in your coat, and don't bring your mother a gift? Not even a flower? Not even one of those weird flavored Kit-Kats from the city?"
"I forgot, alright!"
"You forgot your mother?!"
"I'm sorry!"
She pointed the spoon at him like a blade.
"If I ever come into millions, you know what I'm buying first?"
"A better son?"
"Maybe I should."
He laughed, rubbing his hand.
Then she sat down again and eyed him.
"No girlfriend?"
He blinked. "What?"
"Don't play dumb. A boy shows up after years with a stack of cash and no woman on his arm? What is this? A sad show?"
"I don't have a girlfriend."
"Why?"
"Because life's been kind of… busy."
She stood up.
"Oh no."
"Mom—"
She grabbed the spoon again.
He stood.
She walked toward him.
He backed up around the table.
"Mom, wait—"
"I left you alone too long! That's what happened!"
"Mom!"
"Wasting away in that city like a stray dog, not even a girlfriend to show for it? Hopeless!"
"I don't need you to—"
"I'll ask around. Someone's got a niece. Or a friend's daughter. Someone's got to be desperate enough to date my son!"
He laughed as she chased him around the table, half-heartedly swinging the spoon like a sword.
"Mom, come on!"
"You better start training again if this is all the cardio you can handle!"
"I've missed this," he said between breaths, still smiling.
"Of course you have," she said, planting the spoon in her apron like a weapon returned to its sheath. "No one loves you like family."
He stopped moving.
And just stood there.
Looking at her.
The kitchen. The food. The warmth.
And the place he finally remembered how to call home.